In The Footsteps of the Master. Chapter Eighteen: Farenheit One Thousand.
Title: In the Footsteps of The Master.
Chapter Eighteen: Farenheit One Thousand.
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,560
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, et al.
Summary: Sherlock and John return to London to help DI Lestrade catch a serial killer who may not be what he seems.
Warnings: Explicit violence, graphic gore and depictions of brutality, non-con, murder, explicit sex.
In the Footsteps of The Master. Chapter Eighteen: Farenheit One Thousand.
Despite being ordered to look down at the floor of the SUV, John made a strenuous effort to use his peripheral vision. This told him that they were being driven out of the West Yorkshire countryside into what had to be the city of Leeds.
Surprisingly, they didn’t get far into the city precincts. The outskirts of Leeds were ringed with industrial parks, vast featureless structures known as "tilt-ups" - mere concrete slabs, tilted up via crane to create warehouses, distribution centres. Mile after mile of virtually empty straight road divided the zone into grids. If you got lost here, you might not find your way out.
The SUV turned into a driveway with an automatic gate which the driver operated with a remote. The men had all taken their masks off as they left the countryside, which made John deeply fearful. They knew their faces had been seen. So, they didn’t care. Which meant only one thing.
They didn’t expect that he- or Sherlock - would be in any position to tell anyone what they looked like.
* * *
At some point during the drive, the men had relieved them of their mobiles, scrolled through them, and removed the batteries. The controlled look on Sherlock’s face was not reassuring. John figured if he had come up with any plan, he would have started talking by now. Instead, since John and Sherlock were wedged together uncomfortably between two of their captors, hands cuffed tightly together, their fingers groped slowly and silently for any sharp object that could be used to pick the lock. Sherlock was world class when it came to escaping from handcuffs - but he needed something with which to pick the lock.
There was nothing.
After that became clear, their fingers became still, intertwined.
* * *
They drove into a cavernous, dimly lit warehouse. Stacks of boxes of what looked to be cigarettes and liquor were set near an enclosed office with a door and window in the middle of the football-field sized space. Outside the office were metal folding chairs, a table strewn with playing cards, a few empty glasses, and an overflowing ashtray. And over the back of one of the chairs, a carelessly slung submachine gun.
Having seen no cars or pedestrians anywhere near this soulless place, John thought it quite likely that no one at all would hear that gun.
They were dragged out of the car and prodded until they were sitting in the folding chairs. Two of the men sat, guns trained on them. The other two stood nearby. Their apparent leader, the driver, turned to John and Sherlock. His voice was thick, slow, and had a heavy Russian accent. But they understood every word he said.
"Okay. You’re not cops. But you know one."
They exchanged glances. Silence.
"We wait for our boss. When he comes, you will talk. But . . . he will be . . . pleased, if we do the hard work. So, tell me. Why was Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard in your home? So far from London?"
Silence.
The man drew nearer. He grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s hair and pulled hard, and one of the others lunged forward instantly to hold John’s free arm back as he tried for the man’s throat.
Now the leader had Sherlock’s head pulled back. And a knife pressed to it. His face was expressionless. John could see Sherlock’s pulse beating in his neck.
"Gentlemen. Give me respect. Maybe - we do this one at a time. You - you, into the office now. We have our talk in private."
"Why not," Sherlock said, as though the knife weren’t there, as if he couldn’t feel the blade against his skin. His eyes implored John not to stop him. Before John could even react, their handcuff was unlocked.
As they pulled the cuffs apart, his hand grasped for Sherlock’s, but it slipped away. Sherlock was dragged from him.
"Don’t -" John shouted, and they held him down.
After the office door closed, blinds on the single window were snapped shut.
But he still had something to hold onto. He pulled his foot under the chair and looked away from the boxes of liquor.
* * *
Mycroft was giving Kraslov a tour of the LearJet.
They were in the air now, the city lights just visible beneath grey clouds below. If they went direct to Leeds the flight would take less than an hour; but Mycroft’s pilot (also his driver) would keep them in the air as long as Mycroft needed for his purposes - or until they ran low on fuel. Mycroft was designated co-pilot - only because it gave him more freedom to concentrate on the task at hand.
Kraslov’s lieutenant, Viktor, paced the small cabin like a nervous tiger. The girls were drinking champagne and cuddling on a sofa in a curtained alcove at the back of the jet, clearly relishing the glamour of it all. Kraslov was feeling expansive now, and made a move as if to dive in to ravish the alluring girls. Mycroft stopped him.
"Now, Vladimir, is your time to feel what one of these jets feels like under your own hands. I promise you, there’s nothing like it. The girls can wait - soon we will land."
Kraslov’s eyes sparkled as he drank in sight of the complex array of dials and buttons in the cockpit. Mycroft stood up out of the co-pilot’s chair.
"Really, my friend, you must try it - just once. You will want to buy one tomorrow, I assure you." Mycroft stood aside in the tiny space and gestured for Kraslov to take the co-pilot’s chair. It was a matter of pride, of machismo. Kraslov could not refuse to try what his friend ‘Sergei’ had mastered. And he didn’t.
He eased his bulk into the chair and let Mycroft point out a few of the simpler controls. The pilot smiled respectfully, and Kraslov didn’t pay any particular notice when he flipped a certain toggle switch.
* * *
Sherlock eyed the two men. One was tying him to a chair behind the desk while the other trained his gun in the center of Sherlock’s chest.
"Now. What is your real name. I’ve looked at your mobile, so don’t lie."
"Sherlock Holmes. If you’ve looked in my mobile, you can see I haven’t been in contact with Lestrade . . . for a long time." It was true. His mobile had been in police custody during his captivity and since his return, he and Lestrade had most certainly not been in phone contact.
"No matter," said the taller of the two, the one with the gun. He smiled and showed his teeth, flashy with gold fillings. "He was at the house. With you - and your friend. Whose house is it?"
"It is my house." There was no point lying. It was well known in the district that he and Mycroft were heirs to Lady Holmes’ Riddleston Hall. Depending on how long these men had been following Lestrade, they may have already verified this. Balance of probabilities, they had.
The gold-toothed man smiled as if he did not believe this. The emerging idea that this might not be able to be contained, that somehow this debacle could lead these men to his mother, made Sherlock’s flesh crawl.
"Why would Detective Inspector Lestrade come to your house?"
"Because - John Watson and I are both witnesses. In a murder case. It was near the estate that the murder happened. The trial is next month. Detective Inspector Lestrade wanted to interview Watson and me, to prepare for trial. It’s been in all the papers." He hoped these Russian thugs were hazy on jurisdictional matters - such as that the West Yorkshire police, and not Scotland Yard, were in charge of the Rexworth murder investigation.
His interrogator nodded as if he didn’t believe this either. He nodded to his confederate, who punched Sherlock hard in the stomach with his huge gloved paw. Sherlock saw stars and doubled over in pain. But he learned from the professionally administered blow that they didn’t have authority from their boss to do him any real damage. They were just being thorough, possibly passing the time, before they were handed over to the man in charge.
He smiled arrogantly, feeling a small moment of relief. "Look, if you want to find Detective Inspector Lestrade, I don’t know why you’re asking us. Look him up at his offices. At New Scotland Yard. I’m sure they’ll be happy to meet you."
He was struck again. This time with the butt of a gun.
So, he had been wrong. Unfortunately. These men were more than willing to do him damage. As long as he was still alive when the boss got here. But that was all right. Because as long as they were occupied with him, they would leave John alone.
He hoped.
* * *
Suddenly red and yellow lights were blinking and beeping urgently in the cockpit, and the pilot swore softly under his breath and struggled with the controls.
"What is it!!" Kraslov exclaimed.
"Don’t move, don’t worry," Mycroft said smoothly. "Viktor, you and the girls must buckle up now, I’m afraid. Nothing to worry about, just a spot of weather. Vladimir, I will show you what to do. It’s quite simple."
The plane was jerking alarmingly and the girls were whimpering, and Viktor snapped at them in Russian as he reluctantly strapped into a seat, not without first stumbling and striking his head against the overhead storage, dazing him slightly.
This was the moment. Mycroft threw a restraint made of a spare seatbelt around Kraslov’s arms and tightened it around the co-pilot’s seat with a swift, economical jerk. As he shouted his surprised anger, Mycroft held a knife to his throat.
"What are the names of the men you are holding in Leeds?" He said, softly, reasonably.
"Sergei, what the fuck -" Kraslov was trying vainly to free himself but couldn’t move an inch. "Viktor!!!!"
"Shut up. What are the names." He pressed the knife tighter.
The pilot was standing up now, having programmed a course on autopilot - and therefore had the freedom to point a huge gun at Viktor and the girls.
"If my associate has to shoot you, it will distract him from flying this plane. I assure you it is likely to crash, which would be unfortunate, but won’t save you, obviously. Sit still back there and be quiet - and maybe you will live," Mycroft said over his shoulder. Of course, he didn’t really want a gun fired in the cabin, most dangerous - but he was betting that Viktor wouldn’t know that.
Kraslov tried kicking at the controls in a vain attempt to sabotage the flight, but there was no room. Mycroft pressed the knife tighter and blood started welling and spilled in a slow trickle down his Adam’s apple.
"All right, let’s move this along, shall we? What if I told you the men are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?" He looked deeply into Kraslov’s eyes, and saw from the signs there, and from the brief tension in his hands, that it was indeed true. Kraslov’s men had captured Sherlock and John, intending to take Lestrade.
"Where?"
Vladimir shook his head. He wasn’t going to open his mouth.
Mycroft knew everything about Vladimir Kraslov, his years in hard Russian prisons, his escape, his climb to power in Liverpool; it would take longer than Mycroft could spare to make him talk.
However, he might, just might, have fortune on his side.
Mycroft sighed, reaching into Vladimir’s pocket and retrieving his mobile. It was the work of a moment to retrieve the cryptic texts, texts that told a terrifying story - surveillance on Lestrade, plans to kill him once they had extracted everything Lestrade knew about their gang’s Liverpool operations. Following Lestrade to Riddleston Hall, lying in wait outside the gates of the estate; the kidnaping by mistake of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in a rainstorm, as they drove Lestrade’s borrowed car. Finally, Mycroft found the prize: Vladimir’s instruction to take them a warehouse in Leeds to await his personal attentions. Several texts since had gone unanswered, while Vladimir was enjoyably distracted by his friend "Sergei’s" entertaining company.
Mycroft spent a few frantic minutes unlocking the "restricted" mobile number of Kraslov’s man and tracing the mobile pings to a location on the outskirts of Leeds. He stared at the blinking dot on the map, assuring himself it was fixed and stationary. They were not driving, not moving. Zooming in on the map showed a vast industrial park.
Vladimir Kraslov was glaring at him. Mycroft found photos of Lestrade, and of Sherlock and John taken in the back of a vehicle, in Kraslov's mobile. He held the mobile close to Kraslov's face, making sure he looked at the photos.
"Now you know who this is for," Mycroft said against his ear, as he wrenched his head and broke his neck.
* * *
John tried several times to launch himself from the chair to the office door, but was held back by his Russian companions. Finally, they tied him to a chair almost courteously.
The walls of the little office must have been thick. His straining ears could hear nothing. But shadows playing against the blinds told the story.
The men watched him, grinning, to see if he would react. He summoned up deep reserves of strength of will and turned away from the violent images playing at the window.
"Can I have a drink," he asked with false cheer, nodding toward the empty glasses.
They ignored him. But then, one of the men pulled out a bottle of scotch from one of the stacked boxes. The man took a slug and gave the bottle to his confederate, who did the same. They shrugged at John, as if they wished they could give him a drink, but it was against their better judgment.
"How about a smoke, then?" he pursued with his most engaging, all-fellows-together expression.
After a muttered exchange in Russian, one of the men lit a cigarette and put it between John’s lips. His arms and chest were bound tightly to the back of a folding chair, but his hands were free and he was able by stretching down a little to puff on the cigarette. He tried very hard not to cough and sputter on the smoke.
The three men smoked companionably together in silence.
* * *
Several minutes later, Sherlock was bleeding from deep cuts in his eyebrows, nose, and lips, and his eyes were swelling shut. It was possible his jaw had been dislocated, or broken; it was making a strange crunching sound. But these men knew nothing of Sherlock’s tolerance for pain. He tried to make it look as if he were near his limit, though. No reason to tempt them to extravagance. For John’s sake, he kept his cries in, as much as he could.
"Try again, Mr. Holmes. Why was Detective Inspector Lestrade in your house?"
"I’ve told you, " he said slowly, his swollen tongue and lips making it hard to speak. "But I can tell you - something else. Something - that I think you’d better know - before you make a mistake."
"I’m listening."
"If you don’t - let us go, now - ‘Stone’ Malone will make you - answer for it."
The temperature in the room dropped as the men registered this name, a name they hadn’t expected to hear.
"What did you say?"
"That’s all you’ll get. You ought to - know better. If we - come to any harm - you’ll pay - More important, your - boss will pay. Who will he - blame?"
The Russians paused a moment, considering. One of them pulled out his mobile and it was clear that they were debating whether to disturb their boss over Sherlock’s threat.
* * *
After a few moments smoking, one of the two men - older, dark-haired and calm, with a scarred face - said something in Russian to the other man, younger, fair-haired, and jumpier. They gestured toward the office where the other two men were obviously hard at work. John felt cold sweat trickle slowly down the back of his neck and along his spine. Knowing, and not knowing, what was happening in there was an agony beyond compare.
"Okay. To work," said the darker one, the one that had given him the cigarette. Without expression, began to pull off John’s shirt.
"What’re you doing?" John asked. He couldn’t stop the nervous quaver.
"See work better," the man said matter-of-fact, as if this were obvious. He was holding up his glowing cigarette tip, examining it meditatively. Now John understood their willingness to share cigarettes. But just as it appeared that his man was going to apply this measure to loosen John’s tongue, he froze. And pointed at the extensive pattern of quite gruesome scars on John’s shoulder and stomach.
"Where you get?"
John jerked his head toward his left shoulder. "Shot. In Afghanistan. And this was a bomb, exploded right under me. Afghanistan, too."
The dark man’s eyes grew wider, reflecting . . . something. He was remembering. He put the cigarette butt down.
"They sent me to Afghanistan. I was only 16, right? I had rifle - but only sometimes bullets. And only sometimes, food. You understand?" He gave a wolfish grin. "Taliban." He pulled up his own shirt, showing a very long, wide and faint scar along his abdomen, almost masked by a complicated black tattoo, looking to John to have been a serious knife or bayonet wound.
"Look," John said. "This is some kind of mistake. I’m a doctor, a doctor, you understand? I don’t know why we’re here. We won’t say anything, I give you my word. You have to let us go."
The man looked pained. His younger companion started an angry stream of Russian, accompanied by dramatic gestures that made clear he thought that it was time to start getting serious with their guest. But the dark man shook his head.
"We wait for boss. Let him say."
"Thank you, thank you," John said fervently. The younger man scowled, muttering under his breath, but the dark man exchanged a look with John that could only be understood by men who had slept under the trail of Afghan rockets.
"What about that drink, then," John ventured, his heart turning a somersault. The dark man nodded, and pulled open another nearby box. This time, it was vodka; Polish, not Russian, in a tall, expensive-looking bottle. He poured out three glasses and set the bottle on the table, handing one glass to John.
He awkwardly bent down to take a small sip, making it look like a large gulp, then bent over further as if coughing on the strong spirits. He heard the younger man give a scornful laugh and the dark man, a more sympathetic chuckle. Then they were talking quietly with their heads together, knocking back vodka, and not watching him - for the moment. It was all he needed.
He bent a little to the side and slipped his hand slowly down to his sock and pulled out the road flare from the police car.
This had a tab that had to be pulled, and this was the hardest part; but he thanked God his hands were free even though his arms were tied tightly to the chair, and he pulled the flare up and yanked the tab with his teeth just as the men started to look back, curious at his odd movements; but as they turned he hurled the glass of vodka at their faces, splashing them and leaving a little trail on the concrete floor. Now the flare sparkled red, and expanded like a miraculous red star at 1,000 degrees Fahrenheit, and he held it away from his face and tossed it to the end of the trail, registering the whites of their eyes stretched with terror as he hurled himself backward as hard as he could, scrambling away from the explosion that traveled up their garments as they screamed, clawing helplessly at the fire that was consuming them.
The folding chair collapsed under him and he got free from his bonds - which was a very good thing, because the door to the office was opening now; as the first Russian came out shouting at the spectacle of the two burning men, staggering, shrieking inhumanly, John ran through the smoke with the metal chair and smashed it full into his face, and didn’t stop beating him with it until he stopped moving.
But now, one of the burning men fell against the cartons of liquor and John knew that in a flash, everything would be over. For the merest second he was poised between going for Sherlock, or pulling the burning man away from the flammable cartons when the last Russian came running out of the office with a gun, and John’s subconscious had only the merest fraction of a instant to register that he had heard no shot, and that this meant Sherlock might still be safe, when the Russian flew back, red blood exploding from his chest. John didn’t hesitate at this surreal spectacle, but dove into the office and tore Sherlock’s bloody form from the chair and dragged him to the floor. By the time he had pulled Sherlock not more than twenty feet his eyes were at level with a pair of polished handmade oxfords. A tall figure was towering over them.
In a state of wonder and shock, John recognized the grave face of Mycroft Holmes, lit by flames, and in his hand, a gun with a long silencer.
To be continued . . . .
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